9781618851307WitchsBrewShayNC

by Unknown

“Fine,” the bed repeated in a mocking tone directed at her retreating back. “And you wish I was lumpy. Sweet dreams, Witch Saylym.”

  Saylym whipped around to stare at the ugly eye. “I am not a witch,” she said through clenched teeth.

  It made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, then stretched its mouth in a wide yawn. “Good night, Saylym, bungler of magic.”

  “Bungler of magic?”

  The bed closed its single eye, gave a soft sigh, and immediately began snoring. It was the loudest, most disgusting roar Saylym had ever heard. Her jaw dropped. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all.” She stormed into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. “Kicked out of my own bed, how pitiful is that? And I’m innocent. Innocent.” Punching her pillow, she gave an indignant, “Hummmph.”

  Saylym curled up on the sofa and tugged the blanket up to her ears.

  Did Talon have these problems?

  Since he was convinced he was a waken, maybe he could explain what was happening to her. She made a mental note to ask him in the morning. She sighed and closed her eyes, allowing his image to fill her mind.

  Talon appealed to her on an elemental level that sometimes overwhelmed her. His skin was the color of burnished gold, tanned to a healthy glow. His green/gold eyes sparkled like brilliant jewels when he laughed.

  Her fingers itched with the need to run them through his flowing black mane. He had a mouth made for sin. She sighed with appreciation. There was little doubt Talon came from a great gene pool.

  Prince Talon, she corrected sleepily, yawning.

  Prince Charming, her mind whispered as she drifted to sleep. Sexy…Prince Charming…

  Her sleep-hazed mind overflowed with curiosity and the provocative question; did he look as good without clothes as he did with them?

  Would his…she squirmed in drowsy embarrassment as the unfamiliar word fumbled for expression…pen…no, erec…no…what had Eldora called it? Wand. Would his wand be thick and broad or long and skinny? Or maybe, heaven help her, as Eldora had said, long and thick.

  Good grief, Eldora with her fascination for a man’s nether parts were rubbing off on her. But if she stood before Talon, gloriously naked, would that body part stand at attention, demanding entrance to her woman’s sheath? Would he tease and toy her with it or take her with a slow, soul scorching rhythm? Perhaps he’d take her fast and furious in a heated rush.

  She arched her body, seeking his. She wanted to feel him filling her body.

  Suddenly he was there, in her dream, boldly naked, and yes, his sex was hard and jutting, broad and thick as his wrist.

  She swallowed hard as Talon reached for her, drawing her close.

  “I want you,” he said hoarsely. “I need you.” Slowly, he drew her hands around his hard shaft. “Feel how much I need you.” His husky words whispered against her throat, slid against her flesh like warm honey, moist and seductive, slow and teasing. Hot.

  He glided the tip of his tongue down her neck to the curve of her shoulder. There, he gently bit her, then laved the tiny sting with his tongue. He licked his way down the slope of her breast, nibbling, scraping a taut nipple with his teeth through the silk of her pale pink nightgown.

  “I want to be inside you,” he moaned.

  As he suckled deeply on a turgid nipple, his mouth felt warm and wet against the thin silk. Her body quivered as he drew on the tight bud. Heat pooled in her belly and the junction of her thighs grew creamy with need. She stepped away from his arms, shook her head, her smile a provocative challenge that dared him to come and get her, a Circe luring him to her.

  His fingers clenched in her hair, beckoning her to her knees in front of him.

  She understood what he wanted. She smiled up at him through a thick veil of lashes, mysterious woman, willing slave, then curled her fingers around his engorged staff and leaned closer. She remembered how he’d glided his tongue up and down the length of her finger when it had ignited. Remembered how he’d stabbed his tongue between her fingers then nibbled.

  Sliding her wet tongue up and down his thrusting rod, she stroked and lapped, nibbled and swirled her tongue over the broad head. A clear drop of fluid rose to the very tip of the broad head. She licked it off, lapping like a kitten at cream, savoring his sexy taste on her tongue. Bit by bit, she drew the entire length of his cock inside her mouth.

  His soft moans filled the night that surrounded them. His fingers tightened in her hair, dragging her closer while he moved his hips in a slow, age-old rhythm. Gently, she cupped his balls in her hands, massaging them in turn. She felt his shudder of pleasure, the urgent thrust, heard his strangled whisper as he cried her name and pushed deeper inside the wet warmth of her mouth.

  He groaned a warning, whispering her name, but she wouldn’t release him. His low, guttural moan surrounded her as his body exploded with his hot release. Warm, thick fluid slid down her throat. She swallowed, moaning and lapping and swallowing again and again.

  Saylym jerked awake, gasping for breath. “Whau!”

  It took her a second to realize it wasn’t real, that she’d been dreaming. Still, she jumped up, ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth and gargled twice. Back on the sofa, she thrust her fingers through her tousled hair. “Holy shit!”

  Why would she dream something so intensely sexual? She’d never participated in oral sex. Never had sex, period. Lately, her body had grown sensitive and damn it, sex was all she thought about. Sex with Talon. Now she was dreaming about it.

  Right this second, her body felt edgy with an unfamiliar ache. Her stomach clenched. Her breasts felt swollen, and tender. Her thighs throbbed as if he’d actually been between them. For heaven’s sake, she was wet with desire. She flung off the cover, unable to bear even the light feel of the blanket touching her heated skin.

  “Handsome hunk or not, what a frickin’ nightmare.”

  * * * *

  Talon reared up on the side of the bed, awakened by the burning realization he’d just spilled his seed onto the sheets. His chest heaved with the force of his ragged breathing. It had been at least two hundred years since something like that had happened to him.

  By the gods, he was too old to be having wet dreams. Too old to play games and too old to wait any longer for the witch he wanted. He could still feel Saylym’s sweet mouth around his painfully engorged cock.

  He rocked back and forth as he eyed the part of his body that still jutted upward, aching and throbbing like the mother of all toothaches.

  “Well, damn,” he groaned, swearing softly.

  It had seemed real. Felt real.

  But it was a dream.

  It was real enough to make him—

  He leapt off the bed, swearing. Scalding heat suddenly slammed into his gut. Talon dropped to his knees, gagging. Sweat poured down his face. He clenched his teeth and rocked back and forth in agony. Red-hot flames licked at every part of his body, consuming and relentless. “Ah, gods! This has to stop.”

  He had to make the witch his own and soon, or he was going to combust. He’d never hurt like this in his life. It felt as if he was being roasted alive over an open pit of red-hot coals. His cock, already hard as a pike, tightened even more and demanded release. He might as well not have emptied his seed on the bed for the urgent need consuming him again.

  Talon glared down at the one-eyed thing causing him so much misery. It had been hundreds of years since he’d used one-handed relief, but he closed his fist around his aching shaft and stroked with ruthless urgency.

  He thought of Saylym and fantasized about her sweet mouth taking his aching shaft, imagined her warm, wet tongue teasing and titillating. His fingers tightened, glided up and down in a smooth rhythm. He remembered the fierce heat of mating at Beltane and prayed he could wait a little longer, wait until Saylym trusted him more and was ready to bond before the guild forced him to take the choice from her and make her his own.

  But he knew if she walked into this room, this very second, he wouldn’t wait. He’
d be inside her and he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing her. She’d die in his arms.

  Strength, power, or spells to entice a witch to surrender and mate with him wasn’t how he’d lived his life. There was no way he’d abuse Saylym or any other witch, in this manner.

  Confusion jabbed at his brain like a hot poker. He didn’t understand this urgent craving to have her. There was simply no getting her out of his mind. Although he’d like to, he couldn’t blame it all on Beltane. There was something else, something different about Saylym Winslow.

  At last, his body clenched and he shuddered violently. He threw back his head. His hot seed spilled into the palm of his hand. Shuddering, his body quivered as spasm after spasm chewed through his belly.

  Suddenly feeling embarrassed, he wondered how he was ever going to be able to look Saylym in the eyes tomorrow without remembering the feel of her mouth on him, and without feeling the weight of her breasts in his hands.

  He cleansed off the evidence of his raging need, replaced the soiled sheets and lay back on the bed. Sweat drenched his body. First, his skin burned. Then it turned cold as ice. He moved restlessly, tearing up the freshly made bed as excitement and fever seared his flesh once again. His body felt like steaming liquid, as if he’d melted into a sweltering pool of bubbling lava. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam rising from his flesh.

  Perhaps he was feverish. Yes, mayhap that was it. He must be ill. Either that or someone had cursed him with a spell. He glanced down at his hardening manhood and groaned. Was he never going to satisfy the damn thing?

  No, his mind whispered. Not until he took Saylym. Not until he felt her warmth tightening around his shaft, milking him of his seed.

  Definitely a spell. Why else would he have this raging need for one witch?

  Somehow, she’d hexed him.

  And he wondered bleakly just how long this painful need was going to last.

  * * * *

  Resting on his perch across the room from Talon, Vox slowly opened his eyes. His piercing yellow gaze settled on the waken.

  The prince had it bad.

  He’d never seen his Talon react this way to a pretty witch before, never seen him enter the privacy of another’s dreams to share the intimacy there. It was a rare thing to witness and indicated a solid mind link between the couple that was extremely unusual.

  Even more unusual was the fact that neither of them was aware of the link. He knew his prince didn’t realize he’d actually invaded the witch’s dream realm. That Saylym had truly touched him with her hands and mouth in the dream, that those touches had created the raging fire burning inside him now.

  Ah, but Beltane had certainly arrived with a vengeance. The scalding heat devouring the young waken was a powerful thing indeed.

  Slowly, he closed one eye, keeping the other eye cocked open and trained on Talon. Best to keep a guard over the waken, else, the Flaymes of Eternal Life were going to consume him.

  Vox sighed.

  He had a feeling it was going to be a very long and miserable night for the prince.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lydia Dustin, Susannah Martin, Sarah Morey, and Dorcas Hoar were examined by Hathorne and Corwin.

  ~Dorcas Hoar

  “I will speak the truth as long as I live.”

  ~ Salem Witch Trials

  May 2, 1692

  Page Entry…

  Kran disappeared before All Hallows’ Eve. His name was struck from the family record, from history. He was never seen or heard from again. No one cared enough to ask questions, especially Queen Shy-Ryn, when a consolation gift arrived for her.

  The coven gave their queen a beautiful black stallion. She smiled her pleasure but said nothing, other than to give the command for the stallion to be gelded immediately. It was said the stud screamed in agony while the procedure was accomplished with a dull knife.

  The months ahead lay before the queen like a black cloud. Her pregnancy was fraught with illness those five months before she was delivered of her babe.

  Poor child, it wasn’t the babe’s fault she’d been conceived in such violence and in such a shameful, incestuous manner, but the beloved queen could not bring herself to gaze upon the beautiful, black-haired baby girl. She refused to suckle the child, nor would she hold her. In her own words, she declared the babe an abomination.

  Months went by before she finally asked the name the babe had chosen–MeLora–And gods help us, we’d all live to regret the day that child was ever conceived.

  ~Pages of history from the Winslow witches.

  In the Year of Samhain, 1555

  Ru-Noc

  Droth

  City of the wakens

  Black Drayke clenched his fists and swore viciously. He wanted to kill that damned wizard for taking so long to perfect the potions he’d ordered. But at last, he’d collected the potion and made his way to the palace grounds where he waited for the right moment to make his move.

  Most of all, he wanted to throttle MeLora. He detested the cold-hearted, conniving bitch.

  His scheme to sneak into the palace and take control of Queen Helayne had been delayed, therefore, delaying MeLora. They both had to wait on Wizard Marcelo and his unstable concoctions, spending time they could not afford to lose, time that left them vulnerable and at risk of someone discovering their plans to overthrow the king and queen.

  It was a delay that tended to make the both of them nervous and irritable.

  It also deepened their suspicions of one another.

  At the moment, his one desire was to drain MeLora’s spirit from her lush body in the most painful way he could conceive. How he hated that witch. She was in his way, now.

  No one got in his way.

  His tolerance of her was at an all time low. MeLora had played him for centuries, dragging him deeper and deeper into the world of the Black Arts. He had been willing enough. He liked the dark world, liked the powers it gave him.

  Choosing the dark realm came naturally for him. He’d first sampled the Black Arts when he tied his mother to a stake and set her afire then blamed Queen Leyla for the dirty deed. Eventually, he would have done the same thing to Zoman and Kran, but the coven had beaten him to both of them. Before he was done, he’d have the pleasure of watching Talon burn at the stake as well.

  The day he’d found MeLora in the woods waiting for her illumrof lover, he'd known she was somehow different from other witches. Her powers were strong for one so young. The aroma of her mating scent tantalized his body and drew him to her. She was young to be so ripe and fertile. He’d grinned as his cock swelled against his pants. He wanted her.

  Even though she’d fought him, in the end, their mating had turned more playful than brutal.

  He threw back his head laughing, knowing instantly she’d conceived. MeLora was furious when he assured her their mating had resulted in a son. She accused him of ruining her plans. He hadn’t known what her plans were, nor did he care.

  Pulling free of her body, he cocked a brow at her. “Carry on with your schemes, my sweet. You’ve given me a good ride but I have no further use for you.”

  Livid bruises colored her throat and breasts where he left his mark upon her flesh. He curled his top lip and looked her over with distaste. “Let your human lover see you now, after you’ve lain with me. My scent covers your body and my seed creams your thighs. You think he will not realize another has been inside you?”

  She screeched, calling him names he didn’t recognize.

  He laughed and left her sprawled inelegantly on the quilt.

  Centuries passed before they met again. Their second mating was just as powerful and intense as their first and it resulted in a second child between them.

  Although he didn’t ask, she told him she had named their son, their firstborn, Trad. He was surprised she’d even bothered to give the babe a name. He knew MeLora had little use for a child and when the boy turned five, she’d deserted him, leaving him in the mortal realm to fend for himsel
f. MeLora placed a hex on their second child, a girl, and left her, unnamed, on the doorstep of strangers. She had no idea what became of either babe and like him, didn’t care.

  The third child she conceived was also a girl, and again, MeLora couldn’t be bothered with a name. Instead, after placing a spell on the babe, she’d dumped her in the woods, not caring if the child survived or not.

  Black Drayke swore beneath his breath. Now, MeLora was like a shadow, following him wherever he went. She appeared, watching him like that damned Bawk of Prince Stry’s. He hadn’t had a single second to escape to Sanctuary and track down Saylym Winslow.

  Ah, but he would. Just as soon as he took care of Queen Helayne and MeLora, Saylym was next on his list of witches to do.

  Saylym. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of her name on his tongue. He knew he was good at deception. Sneakiness was his forte.

  He slunk in and out of the shadows, gliding and blending with shrubs and bushes in the blackness of the night as he prowled the palace grounds.

  Like a malevolent spider, he remained undetected, waiting for his unsuspecting prey. He waited for just the right moment to make his kill, to ensnare his victim in his ever-tightening web. He waited and watched, impatient for the Captain of the Guards to return to his post at the far corner wall of the palace.

  At last, he had a moment to mull over his plans, and savor them. The witching hour drew nigh and he was ready to invade the palace and conquer the queen. He snickered. He would be on the queen so fast she wouldn’t know what hit her.

  His thoughts returned to MeLora.

  Deep in his gut, he felt certain the witch spied on him. He shrugged it off. So what? There was nothing she could do to him. He was a powerful warlock, she a puny witch. But there was something about her that unnerved him.